


Wolves in Wool Cloth

by ilikeyoshi



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Like How Sick Would That Be, What If Onyxia Was Still In Stormwind When Wrathion Hatched
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-09
Updated: 2015-11-09
Packaged: 2018-04-16 06:50:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4615455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilikeyoshi/pseuds/ilikeyoshi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With the loss of his father, ten-year-old Anduin Wrynn was made King of Stormwind. Now, nearly five years later, the world itself is on the brink of unraveling. The Twilight's Hammer and the Aspect of Death himself seek to unleash the Hour of Twilight, and like past horrors of Azeroth, Stormwind must be prepared to reject it. But what if there's been a black dragon in their midst all along? And what happens when the Black Prince, in his quest to purge Deathwing's dragonflight from the world, comes for her?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Lesson in Human Anatomy

**Author's Note:**

> Or: Yoshi Thinks Too Hard About The Consequences Of Varian Never Coming Home, ft some timeline discrepancies probably.
> 
> Wrathion's Favorite Assassin™ uses e/eim/eir pronouns. Because reasons. (Because I keep imagining my genderfluid rogue _okay_.)

"Hm. Again."

"This must be the tenth time!"

"And I can still see remnants of your red eyes," Fahrad said, squinting. "Unless you _want_ everyone in the city to recognize you for what you are at a glance."

Wrathion rolled his eyes, craning his neck back with an annoyed and exaggerated groan. Normally, there was no need to mask the fiery light of the Black Prince's eyes, and Wrathion never would, but these were unique circumstances. Most of his mortal form came naturally by now, but since he'd had little need and less desire to mask the trickiest parts of his body, he never bothered. Now, however, it was proving to have been shortsighted.

"Do you _know_ how many creatures in Azeroth have glowing eyes?" Wrathion complained. "The elves, the draenei—just to name a few _Alliance-affiliated_ ones. I hardly think mine will be all that suspicious by comparison."

"Human eyes don't glow," Fahrad said.

"There are some Ebon Blade knights who would like to have a word with you."

"If you want to come up with an elaborate explanation for your bright red eyes that reliably chases the word 'dragon' out of everyone's mind, be my guest."

Wrathion's mouth snapped closed, and all he could manage was to glare at the Ravenholdt rogue.

Fahrad twirled his finger. "Again."

The Black Prince snorted out a noseful of smoke, then submerged himself in a cloud of it. When it dissipated, a black dragon sat in front of the Grand Master, albeit just a young one. He wasn't even two, yet his eyes alone made him look older, as he did not suffer the wild nature of most black whelps his age. He lacked their overbearing inexperience, as corruption drove them erratic and bloodthirsty, making their eyes wide and rabid. Older black dragons could often mask such tainted bloodlust, appearing as they perceived themselves: masters of their own will, not the slaves to their frightening Old Gods they truly were.

The only difference was Wrathion was not just free of the symptoms of corruption, but the corruption itself.

What sat in front of the Grand Master was a purified black dragon, a renegade experiment of the Red Dragonflight, a true author of his own destiny. He was neither a victim of Deathwing's madness nor a hostage of Alexstrasza's arrogance. Corruption could not touch him and imprisonment did not suit him. He was his own, wholly, and anyone that said otherwise wound up with broken legs, if they were lucky.

"Focus," Fahrad said.

"I _am_ focusing," Wrathion whined, then sat up with a face that made Fahrad think he must've been grinning snidely. "Perhaps my power is simply too much to be fully confined to a human form."

"Or you're not trying hard enough," Fahrad said without heat or, in fact, any particular tone.

Wrathion snorted again, then pulled in all his concentration and vanished in another cloud of smoke. Fahrad leaned in before it fully dispersed—dragon smoke never bothered him—and scrutinized Wrathion's eyes. It was a completely uncomfortable process that the Black Prince loathed, such intense eye contact, but he would never admit as much. Eventually, Fahrad stood straight again, with nothing more than a soft scoff.

"Good," he said.

" _Finally_ ," Wrathion groaned. He snatched at the mirror beside him, which Fahrad had been using to point out transformation errors, and winced at his reflection. It shouldn't have been much of a change, from whole red eyes to brown irises, yet he found himself almost unrecognizable. He didn't like it.

"Now we just have to deal with these," Fahrad said, as he tapped one of the long dark horns protruding from Wrathion's scalp with a knuckle. There were four in total, two just nubs, but more would come in with age. "Unless you'd like to argue that the draenei have horns as well."

"Ha hah," Wrathion grumbled, swatting the rogue's hand away. "And what do you recommend, Grand Master of Dragon Disguise?"

Fahrad smirked snidely at the quip. Wrathion pretended that's all it was. "Perhaps try and... fold the horns down? Flatten them against your skull? Like an angry cat does its ears."

"I am not an angry cat."

Fahrad only offered an unconvinced hum in response. Wrathion smartly resisted hissing. He gave another exaggerated sigh and poofed back into his true form, shaking off the grip of the smoke, then shut his eyes and tried to imagine both muting their color and sculpting his horns. Bending his form to that of another shape was obviously not unfamiliar to him—after all, he'd been switching between a whelp and a human teenager all day—but each change required practice and concentration. Mostly, he was used to it, but he'd never much tried with his horns, and he found even just mapping out the transformation in his head to be difficult.

When he finally tried, the effort had, unsurprisingly, not been enough. Fahrad looked over the horns, telling almost immediately that Wrathion had been more concerned with the two longer ones that grew from the top of his head, which to his credit _had_ moved some; unlike the nubs farther down the sides of his skull, which hadn't changed at all.

Several attempts later, and it became evident to Fahrad that changing his eye color had been one thing, but bending protruding bone into seeming nonexistence was a different story. Sighing, he collected the various pieces of Wrathion's turban and, to the Black Prince's surprise, began assembling them on his still very draconic-looking head.

"This will just have to do," Fahrad said. "Just don't let anyone catch you without your turban. And _don't_ give anyone a reason to remove it."

Wrathion smiled innocently. "Please. I must be on my best behavior."

"You must," Fahrad agreed, "or they'll execute you."

Wrathion just scoffed. When the Grand Master was finished, Wrathion hopped to his feet from the boulder he'd been seated on. Elwynn Forest stretched out in every direction, shrouded in more green than Wrathion was used to, even after all his time in the Alterac Mountains. Perhaps it wasn't the green that suffocated him, but the dense woods. There were certainly more trees here than around Ravenholdt. He hoped the city would be less stifling.

"How do I look?" he said with a grin.

Fahrad glanced him up and down once, then again when Wrathion turned away. "At this point, my prince, only the dragon's sense of smell will detect you."

Wrathion laughed hollowly. It was a dragon—one like himself—that drove the Black Prince to Elwynn Forest. She had been the hardest to find by far, deeply and delicately woven into one of the most powerful corners in Azeroth, so much so that it seemed as though no one even knew her true name, let alone associated it with the undercover royal advisor. Wrathion was impressed, to say the least, but she, like Creed, Nalice and all of the Black Dragonflight, would need to be eliminated.

He faced Fahrad again, his grin reduced to a confident smirk. "So long as she misses the lacking stench of corruption, I couldn't care less. Let her tainted mind panic at the sight of me. If in her wrath she exposes herself—well, that saves me quite a bit of trouble."

Fahrad only offered an uncertain squint in reply. Wrathion dismissed it and turned away, emerging from the woods back onto a heavily trodden road. Fahrad said nothing still, only following the Black Prince. It was midday, yet even on the path, the trees shrouded most of the sunlight, leaving Wrathion shaded as he made his way up the inclining earth.

"And if she doesn't?" Fahrad asked, minutes later.

"Hm?"

"If she doesn't panic when you arrive," he said.

Wrathion shrugged. "That would be time-consuming, but I am prepared for that outcome. I never said hunting black dragons would be _easy_."

Fahrad hummed, mulling over the Black Prince's answer. "I'm surprised you didn't send your _friend_ ," he said, inflecting the word with a bitterness to his voice.

"There are two major threats left," Wrathion said. "One is my father, who you already know is the one dragon I am... unable to face." He shifted his jaw as he quickly moved on from the line of thought. "It's only tidier to dispose of both problems at once. So! My friend deals with Deathwing, and _we_..."

He stopped, another grin sweeping up his face as the sunlight found him. Fahrad looked up, and saw a long wall of white stone, adorned with blue and gold flags and the insignia of the Alliance. Stormwind City. Wrathion gave a pleased sigh.

" _We_ deal with Onyxia."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wherein i only write wranduin fanfic. and apparently katrana/onyxia fanfic.
> 
> and i realized if onyxia was still in stormwind when wrathion hatched, he'd absolutely have to deal with her. and that's awesome. so here we are. this is kind of a backburner project to my other fanfic, and that one takes priority, so updates for this one will? be? kind of sporadic? (not that updates for the other one aren't but i expect this one to be worse maybe SORRY.)
> 
> also like i said, there're probably timeline discrepancies. in fact, there are DEFINITELY timeline discrepancies. just assume that going in and we'll all be better off for it. lore is too hard to work out what happened where, ok, just give me this.
> 
> i don't know why i always make my intro chapters significantly shorter than all the other chapters but i do.


	2. Swordplay and Plays on Words

The clatter of a steel sword was a sound Anduin Wrynn had come to loathe. Just hearing the blade, once pristine and sharp, screech and rattle across the cobble as dents and dirt littered it had the power to drive the boy into an outright breakdown, if he did not bite his cheek and swallow the reaction first. After so long, he'd learned how to brace it in, at least until he was someplace where no one would hear of it.

The clatter of his own body was jarring for an entirely different reason. The ever growing number of bruises clung to him, and this long into the training session he'd lost the resolve to even resist the inevitable crashes. So through clenched teeth he begrudgingly and tiredly welcomed every black and blue wound, until his body finally found stillness and he was allowed to just lie in a battered heap beside that wretched steel sword, heaving and hurting for just one short, merciful moment, before Ander Germaine spoke and the cycle repeated.

"You're not finished yet, are you lad?"

He wanted to snap and swear at the warrior, not with malice but desperation, but with a bite and a swallow, he resisted both. He chose not to speak at all, in fact, hoping maybe the instructor would spare him a few more moments of rest. Today was a luckless one, though, as Germaine crossed the small distance between them and bent to retrieve Anduin's sword from the floor.

"Get up, then," the warrior said, not with heat, but perhaps exasperation. "Another try won't kill you."

Oh, Anduin almost wished it would. He bit back most of a whine as he pushed his hands and knees into the cobble, rising gingerly as every single bruise snarled in response. Every day he wondered how much longer he'd have to suffer through sword lesson after sword lesson until finally, _finally,_ someone perhaps realized the path of a warrior was not befitting of Anduin Wrynn at all. He'd said as much, if not a thousand times, but they didn't listen, and all because of a title he never asked for.

King.

King Anduin Llane Wrynn of Stormwind. Son of the late Varian Wrynn, who had vanished and died five years ago. Anduin had only been ten, granted the title by Highlord Bolvar Fordragon at the advice of Lady Katrana Prestor. At least when Bolvar had been alive, the highlord had taken the brunt of all things kingly. It was he who acted as Stormwind's ruler, when Anduin was too young to be equipped with such responsibility, and it seemed that though Anduin had been no better a warrior then, the whole of Stormwind was willing to accept Bolvar's expertise as a paladin as ample fulfillment of their criteria for a 'strong ruler'.

But Bolvar too had died, as it'd been vaguely put, during the campaign in Northrend two years ago. As if his father's death hadn't been devastating enough, Anduin still wondered how he'd survived the night he learned of the highlord's fate at the Wrathgate. He'd been certain the grief would kill him, yet here he was, alive and well—he resisted tacking a sullen _'unfortunately'_ to the end of that thought.

With Bolvar's death came a verdict that many then felt had been three years overdue. Anduin Wrynn was king, in name and now in power. No longer was he treated as the idly crowned King of Stormwind, but instead as its true ruler, and with it came an abrupt end to whatever had remained of Anduin's childhood two years ago. Archery and negotiation were no longer enough. With Azeroth splitting at the seams, they wanted a warrior or a paladin, but all they had was a boy who couldn't lift a damned sword.

Anduin found his footing at last, wobbling as his mind swam through pain and dizziness. When it cleared, Germaine was holding the sword out to him, and with a bite and a swallow, Anduin received it. The instructor moved back to give the young king some room. Knowing what came next, Anduin took his stance and a deep, dreading breath.

"Again," Germaine said. He, like Anduin, knew exactly what the boy had to work on.

Anduin ignored the bruises and charged, raising his sword in the best mimicry of his training he could muster. His strength was abysmal, though—wrecked by exhaustion and small to start with—and Germaine's block not only resisted the attack, but outright deflected it. As was the way of things, Germaine struck the king bluntly before he could dodge or defend, and Anduin collapsed to the cobble again, seething as the steel sword clattered beside him.

Germaine could only sigh at the exhausted display, but Anduin relished the sound, because often, it was promising. Sure enough, he heard the instructor sheathe his weapon and approach the king, who laid willingly defeated on his back. "You struck your head rather hard early on. Perhaps calling it would be best."

"I'm sorry," Anduin managed between aching breaths.

Germaine tilted his head, caught between frustrated and remorseful. "We'll pick up where we left off tomorrow."

Anduin already dreaded it. Twenty-four hours had felt so much longer as a prince. "Yes, sir."

Germaine sighed again, then leaned and offered Anduin his hand. He accepted, cringing as he was pulled into a sit. Germaine went to retrieve his sword for the last time.

"Spend some time on the grounds," the warrior said, "lest Lady Prestor find out your lessons were cut short."

Anduin couldn't help but smile at the thought. It was rare he got to spend much time outside the keep with little supervision, and though the training grounds were hardly freeing, at least it would be time not allocated to dropping his sword for an hour. His first responsibility-free action was a rather anticlimactic one, as he carefully massaged the worst of his bruises with the hope that they'd settle some before his impromptu break was over and the next duty beckoned.

Eager not to miss the opportunity, Anduin tentatively got back to his feet. There wasn't much to do on the grounds besides practice combat, which Anduin had no desire for at the moment. Not even a chance to freshen up on his archery tempted him; everything hurt, and he hoped not to touch another weapon for the twenty-four hours preceding his next lesson. Germaine had since returned to the command center just past the stables, leaving the young king with whatever guardsmen were on duty and whichever soldiers were training at the moment.

He decided to move to the pond left of the Stormwind Intelligence building and soak his feet there. It wasn't often he got a break from standing on them during the day. Tugging off his boots and rolling up the sleeves of his pants, the water was cold but wholly appreciated. Anduin shuddered, but the water did well to chase out the aches in his feet. He parted his knees to lean forward and cup some of the water in his hands, splashing it against his face to wash away the sweat beading there. A yawn slipped free as he was reminded how tiring his responsibilities could be. Aside from the combative noise, the training grounds weren't all that bad when Anduin wasn't looking at them from the ground.

It wasn't that he didn't try—after two years he _would've_ mastered swordplay if he could, if only to make the lessons that much more tolerable. It simply wasn't a skill of his. Why he couldn't be left to his bow and his words, Anduin wished he could only guess, but in reality he knew. They wanted to make a warrior out of him, and once, Anduin had even wanted to _be_ a warrior, or a paladin, or any of those strong, respected classes that befit an Alliance king. But he wasn't stupid; he knew he wasn't cut out for it. He only wondered how much longer it would take for the rest of Stormwind to admit it.

Anduin smiled, for just a moment, as the sound of swords and axes banging against targets relented. Then he realized that was entirely unusual and turned toward the training grounds with a perked curiosity. It took him a moment to name the cause, but one glimpse of the arrival's flashy armor gave him his answer. A man—well, a boy, really—strode with a definite pride through the grounds, followed by another stranger dressed in far subtler leather. Anduin was not entirely surprised to see them approach the SI:7 building, given their rogue-ish attire. He watched, fascinated, as one of the SI:7 agents emerged from the building to greet them.

"Grand Master Fahrad," the agent said, offering a slight bow to the taller, practically-dressed rogue. "We received word of your arrival from Alterac."

 _Alterac?_ Anduin racked his mind for some recent mention of the Alterac Mountains. He thought he recalled some controversy among the nobles regarding it, but that'd been weeks ago—likely when they'd first received notice. It seemed the business was more SI:7's than the House of Nobles', though, which might have explained why Anduin couldn't recall much talk of it.

The older man, Fahrad, bowed his head in turn. "Lord Ravenholdt sends his regards," he said, and shifted—an action which made the SI:7 agent momentarily tense—then produced an envelope and offered it.

The agent accepted it with a glance, pocketing it for the time being. He then spared a look at Fahrad's shorter companion, who almost looked miffed. "I expected company, but not a child."

"Yes, hello, I am standing right here," the child in question said, smiling with more insincerity than Anduin had ever seen compressed into such an expression. Well—almost. "No need to talk about me like I'm not."

The agent was unimpressed with his words. He couldn't be older than Anduin, which made him at most fifteen. Anduin was well aware he would not be treated with the respect he was if not protected by his status as royalty. The agent glanced again at Fahrad. "Who's the boy?"

"He's—" Fahrad started, but his companion spoke first—hissed, more like.

"Call me such again and—"

It seemed only to be a miracle that the boy—teenager, Anduin corrected—caught a glimpse of the cautionary look Fahrad was firing at him and closed his mouth. But he remained visibly angered. _Not a boy,_ Anduin reminded himself.

"Wrathion is not a boy," Fahrad said, calmly, but with an assured firmness.

The agent squinted, but whether he thought they meant 'boy' as in age or otherwise, Anduin couldn't tell. Either way, the agent chose not to press the issue. "Apologies. Who is... this? Your companion?"

"Again, I'm standing right here," Wrathion said, snider than the last time. "You may refer to me as the Black Prince. It is Fahrad who is my companion."

The agent shifted his eyes to Fahrad, who shrugged in confirmation.

"I've never heard of a 'Black Prince'," the agent said.

"No, I suspect not," Wrathion said. He smirked, then, and nodded at the agent's pocket. "However, you will find all you need in that document. Now, I am not exceptionally familiar with Stormwind customs, but you _are_ going to allow us in, aren't you?"

The agent spared another glance at Fahrad.

"You can stop asking him for permission," Wrathion snapped.

"It's the Grand Master SI:7 is expecting," the agent said curtly.

"Let me handle it, my prince," Fahrad said.

Wrathion scoffed—the sort of snort Anduin had only ever seen gryphon chicks make before now—then crossed his arms and twisted his head away. "So be it. I expect my due respect from Mathias Shaw, however."

The agent did well to resist rolling his eyes, then stepped aside and gestured into the building. "This way, Grand Master. Prince Wrathion," he added hesitantly and with a bit of annoyance.

The last thing Anduin saw was a false smirk from the self-declared Black Prince before the three of them disappeared inside. He was tempted to follow, but knew better. Firstly, he had no reason to be in the SI:7 building, and secondly, he'd already eavesdropped plenty on the visitors' business. So instead, he only sighed and curled his toes in the submerged bank of the pond. It didn't sate his curiosity, but with the Black Prince's outspokenness, Anduin doubted the brief sighting would be the last he would hear of him.

The top of the hour rung out from the great clocks around the city, startling Anduin. Had it been that long already? He had a schedule to keep up. Frantically, Anduin pulled his feet out of the water and scrambled to put his boots back on, only to wince hard at all the bruises that answered his hurry. By the time the second boot was on, he was well aware of all his sore spots all over again, and rushing back to the keep was perhaps the very last thing he wanted to do. Getting to his feet didn't make the journey any more appealing. He knew if he didn't hurry, guardsmen would be sent to find him, but even that failed to spur him on. He slumped against a tree only feet from where he'd been sitting, rubbing his arm, where a particularly nasty bruise had formed and was among the loudest of his injuries.

A yawn crept into his throat, reminding him of his growing fatigue. He rubbed his eye, hoping to chase the exhaustion away, but the moment he glimpsed a small shed tucked under the shade across the grounds, it was like he'd lost the internal battle he tried to convince himself he was still fighting. It wasn't often he gave in to urges to disobey his responsibilities, even though such urges were distressingly frequent. But the longer he argued with himself, the sleepier he became and the farther away Stormwind Keep sounded. At some point he'd started walking, though he wasn't entirely sure when, but he resigned to his body's plea for rest and allowed himself to curl into the shed, tucked in the corner closest to the tree it sat under, where no one would catch a glimpse of him from the grounds. Sleep claimed him quickly, and it was a blissful release from the continual ache of his bruises.

* * *

Wrathion's nails drummed on the table. The rhythm was as it always was, but his eyes and horns were not the only aspects of his mortal form that had warranted work. Claws adorned both his hands and feet, and Fahrad had insisted he dull both, his fingers especially. Wrathion had done so, with practice, but now the sound they made on wood or in fact any surface was completely different. The change was annoying him almost as much as this circling conversation.

Mathias Shaw was as wary of Ravenholdt's arrival as Wrathion had predicted he'd be. The master of the Stormwind Intelligence, like his subordinate earlier, had recognized Fahrad, but Wrathion was an utter mystery to the man, and the Black Prince knew rogues well enough to know that frustrated Mathias deeply. Ravenholdt and Stormwind were by no means on friendly terms, and Ravenholdt's reach to negotiate and communicate had certainly taken SI:7 by surprise. But after a lot of very careful persuasion, both on Stormwind and Ravenholdt, Wrathion had orchestrated the two organizations to meet in person. The business was only a cover, of course—Wrathion was here for dragons, not politics. Unfortunately, given this dragon's nature, he would be dealing with both, _a lot,_ because exposing Onyxia was not as easy as waltzing in and calling her by name.

At least, not when you, too, were a black dragon.

Yet no matter how many times Fahrad answered Mathias' questions—Wrathion begrudgingly barred himself from the conversation, as SI:7's frustration with their own confusion was taken out on the Black Prince the most, and Wrathion had grown sick by the fourth time they called him _boy_ —the Stormwind agents remained bewildered. Wrathion missed his favorite assassin, who asked _so few_ questions, and sincerely considered a few times mentioning eir name as someone SI:7 should look to for tips. He resisted, though, for fear of causing his friend trouble. E had enough on eir plate without Wrathion accidentally sending Stormwind to interrogate eim.

It was evident SI:7 did not wholly trust Fahrad's motivations. Jorach Ravenholdt's word helped the most, and while his testimony to Wrathion's semi-fabricated story _seemed_ to be accepted by Stormwind, they remained wary. It would have been understandable if Wrathion was in a better mood and not still pushing off abdominal convulsions following that ugly three-letter word everyone just _loved_ to jab him with. Since he was, he insisted it was completely unreasonable.

Wrathion hardly heard the inquiry Mathias made, but even so, he recognized the vague sounds enough to realize the rogue was asking the same things _again._ Rolling his eyes, Wrathion stood up, unannounced, drawing every pair of eyes in the room to him, however briefly, as he turned and strode for the door.

"Hey—" someone blurted, not that he cared who.

"My prince," Fahrad called, nearly standing.

"Feel free to continue without me!" Wrathion said, feigning pleasantness. "I'm just _suffo_ _cating_ in this stuffy room."

He heard more voices directed his way, but did not bother to process them. No one followed him outside. Several soldiers training on the grounds paused to glance at him, just as they had before, but besides a smug smirk, he paid them little mind. Unfortunately, Stormwind wasn't as liberating to the sense of claustrophobia as Wrathion had hoped, but at least being out of that building helped.

He could see the keep, when he glanced up over the wall that barred the training grounds from Old Town and the royal palace behind it. The keep's towers loomed over the city, banners ensnared in the wind and the blue-and-gold shapes of guards dotting the balconies.

That would be where Onyxia would stay. She certainly had outdone herself, Wrathion had to give her that. Hiram Creed's usurpation of the Blackhowl in Gilneas was admirable, and Nalice couldn't have secured a place better than the once-home of Medivh himself to study her arcane experiments. But Onyxia was on a whole other level. Stormwind bowed to her whim, and had for over a decade. With humanity's strongest nation under her influence, the Alliance as a whole was at her fingertips.

And _did_ she take advantage of that. Stormwind had been a proud land in a time long before Wrathion walked Azeroth, but if the death of Tiffin Wrynn was not the kingdom's undoing, the death of _Varian_ Wrynn was. Their enemies ran amok—Wrathion heard rumors that the Defias Brotherhood was resurging after its destruction only five years ago, and both they and the gnolls encroached closer to the city walls every day. Redridge was overrun with the Blackrock clans, and Duskwood with the worgen and undead. All around, Stormwind was crumbling, and Wrathion wondered what Onyxia wanted with the ashes, if anything. Perhaps she just wanted to see it burn.

Her father must have been proud. Wrathion shuddered.

Clattering plate pried him from his thoughts. His vision sharpened, as a crowd of heavily armored and generously decorated guardsmen entered the training grounds. They were all urgency and pursuit, their helmed faces twisted back and forth, hidden eyes scouring the grounds for—something. They looked at Wrathion and then right through him. What they sought was precise and ingrained in their minds; anything besides it was dismissed without question. They scattered, rasped orders exchanged between them, and only paid the Black Prince enough mind to avoid running into him as they passed.

The grounds were not small, yet Wrathion felt that claustrophobic grip sinking its claws back into him. The rattle of the guards' armor was bouncing all around him and made his head feel light. He stared, hard, at one of the practice dummies, which at least grounded him again, but the commotion remained dizzying. His chest felt heavy and finally, with a hiss, he turned for the darkest place he could find on short notice and stormed for it.

He had to push through targets and trainees to reach it, and it condemned him to more noise in the form of quips and jeers, but it paid off. Deep in the heavy shade was a little shed, about as far away from the racket as Wrathion could get without leaving the training grounds entirely, and he'd take it. He dove inside, slumping against the wall farthest from the grounds, his eyes squeezed shut and his hands clamped over his ears. As the guardsmen outside distanced themselves from each other and some vanished into the Command and SI:7 buildings, their noisy armor became bearable, and soon Wrathion's muscles unwound and he relaxed against the splintered wall behind him.

Tentatively, he pulled one hand away from one ear. It didn't overwhelm him, so with a sigh, his hands slid to cover his face while he let the last of his tension subside. He opened his eyes and saw a red glow reflecting against his gloves—the slip in concentration had cost him his practiced disguise. He only cared when he removed his hands and saw a human boy sitting on the opposite side of the shed.

Stupidly, Wrathion yelped, only realizing the boy had been out like a light when he snapped awake at the Black Prince's outburst. Wrathion buried his face back into his hands, mumbling a curse through his clenched teeth as he struggled to conceal the draconic fire of his eyes again. The boy groaned and the wall he sat against creaked as he stirred. Obviously his nap had not been a comfortable one—the boy sounded like he'd been bludgeoned.

"Oh," he said, sounding half-asleep still. "You're..."

Wrathion scoffed when he didn't finish the thought. "This is a terrible place to rest."

The boy's reply was slow, but preceded with a small laugh. "Yet here you are."

Wrathion almost raised his head to glare at him, only thinking better of it when he saw the glow of his eyes on his hands and hissed in his throat.

"Are you all right?"

"I have a headache," he lied smoothly—the residual impact of the guardsmen's noisy armor and his aggravation did well to feign a suitable tone. "So be quiet," he added sullenly.

He heard the boy's teeth when he snapped his mouth closed. "Sorry."

They said nothing else—if Wrathion's annoyed grumble didn't count—as the Black Prince concentrated on fixing his eyes. He opened and closed them several times, taking care not to part his fingers. The darkness in the shed would make it impossible for the boy not to notice the bright glow of Wrathion's eyes. Finally, he was met with no trace of red against the white of his gloves, and biting his lip, he straightened out of his hunch, hoping they were brown or at least brown enough.

The boy's attention had drifted out into the training grounds, as he watched guardsmen scramble around with a worried crease in his brow. Wrathion's movement reclaimed his attention though. He didn't seem disturbed, so Wrathion assumed he'd succeeded. The Black Prince guessed he was a nobleman's son—his clothes were too nice to be anything else, and the gleaming gold lion on his tabard screamed with Alliance arrogance. It did raise the question of what he was doing in a rickety old shed under a tree though.

"Feeling better?" the boy asked.

Wrathion only grunted, keeping a hooded look on the boy's tabard.

"I saw you earlier," he continued, to the dragon's regret. "Wrathion, right?"

"That would be _Prince_ Wrathion to you," he sneered.

The boy looked shocked by the response. Wrathion scoffed and looked away, already prepared for some petty tantrum. Instead, he was met with a silence free of offended sputtering, and when he glanced back, the boy looked patient and vaguely pleased. Wrathion had never seen a nobleman's brat make such a face.

" _Prince_ Wrathion," he corrected, smiling. "I beg your pardon."

Wrathion blinked, slowly and once. He fixed his stupid expression and shrugged, as his only indication that he accepted the apology.

"You're from Alterac?"

"Yes," Wrathion drawled. Annoyed, he tilted his head. "Are you always so nosy?"

"Yes," the boy answered simply.

Wrathion wrinkled his nose. The boy only smiled harder.

"What brings you to Stormwind?" he asked. "Your home and mine are not on the best of terms since the Second War."

"It might not stay that way," Wrathion said, allowing a smirk. "Your SI:7 and my Ravenholdt have been in the process of negotiation for weeks now. It is my hope that, in time, we might be allies."

The boy's eyebrow crooked. "For what purpose?"

"How many are there?" Wrathion said, laughing once. "Power is all anyone is ever after."

The boy squinted, but said nothing about that. Plate boots stomped past, several yards away, but the sound still irked Wrathion. He stared out, observing several of the scrambling soldiers. The boy leaned forward too, joining Wrathion as they watched in silence for a while. Whatever they'd lost, it was clearly important. Or... Wrathion glanced at the boy, whose worried crease had taken to his brow again.

 _Who_ ever.

"Why are you hiding?"

The boy snapped his head to Wrathion, blinked and then forced a stiff laugh. "I'm not—"

"You are," Wrathion said, and smiled somewhat snidely. "You're a terrible liar."

He huffed, blowing some gold hair off his forehead, and looked out at the training grounds again. "I just needed a break," he said, quietly, inviting no scrutiny or question.

Wrathion recalled that being how he'd wound up in the shed too. He winced and then sat back against the wall with a carefully crafted aloofness. "Busy?"

"That's an understatement," the boy said, smiling with the same snide trace Wrathion had used before.

Wrathion couldn't imagine what had the boy so overworked. He didn't look that old to the Black Prince—were children born into nobility even overworked to begin with? Or was he just complaining? Wrathion hadn't cared to find out how true to their stereotypes noble children were. This one, at least, didn't mind having his status put down when Wrathion imposed his own.

The boy shifted, drawing Wrathion out of his head, and by the time the dragon registered the boy was leaving, he was already on his feet. "I should go," he said with a voice that knew his obligations and eyes that loathed them. All of that disappeared when he glanced down at Wrathion, smiled and gave a steep bow. "I hope you enjoy your time in Stormwind, Prince Wrathion."

Wrathion blinked at him. "What's your name?" he said, not realizing he'd wondered until the words were resounding in his ears.

The boy offered no surprise, but only consideration and that trace of amusement. "Llane," he said as if it were funny.

Wrathion had no idea why it would be, which only seemed to please the boy further. He bowed his head again, briefly, then disappeared before Wrathion could say anything more. The Black Prince shot upright, leaning to see out of the shed, where the boy approached one of the guardsmen and several more flocked to him. He heard them talking but the words were muffled by distance. He watched, in bewildered silence, until the last of the guards had gathered and the group receded from the training grounds. Finally, Wrathion fell back to the wall, blinking repeatedly.

Where had he heard the name Llane before?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the agender wrathion headcanon returns. (as if i'd ever write fanfic without it. ha ha ha! funny.) also returning: wrathion's astounding levels of clueless fucking stupidity. kid, read a history book.
> 
> you all remember war crimes, don't you, because that alternate fatherless katrana-runs-my-life-and-i-hate-it-but-am-powerless-to-stop-it anduin? that's what we're dealing with here, more or less. say hello. maybe hug him. he could use it.


End file.
